


2:15

by cinnabongene



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Desperation, M/M, Omorashi, Stag Night, The Sign of Three Spoilers, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnabongene/pseuds/cinnabongene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting arrested on John's stag night, Sherlock refuses to use the public toilet in their prison cell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	2:15

**Author's Note:**

> This is an desperation/wetting kink fic. There is pee.

Sherlock had thrown up again in the police car on the way to the jail, so needless to say the officers were not very happy with them. “Y’ can’t throw me in jail, ‘m Sherlock Holmes!” the detective protested as he and John were lead towards their cell. “John, John, tell them to call Gerald. He’ll get us out of here!”

“Who now?”

“Gerald! Gerald… Lester!” 

“Greg Lestrade?” John guessed through his drunken haze. 

“Yes, that one!”

“Inspector Lestrade can come get you out in the morning if he wants,” said their arresting officer. “But for now you’re spending the night here in a comfy little cell until you’re sober.” 

“But the case!” Sherlock nearly whined as he and John were shoved into the cell. 

“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes,” sighed the officer, slamming the steel bars in front of them. 

John sat down on the narrow concrete bench that he supposed was meant to serve as a bed and ran his hands over his face. “I can’t believe it. We should’ve just gone to sleep on the staircase. Christ, what’s Mary going to say?” 

Sherlock was still staring longingly through the bars. “Who cares about Mary? That woman went on a date with a ghost! …Or did I imagine that part?” he muttered, rubbing his temples in an attempt to focus and to stave off the headache he felt looming in the distance. 

John ignored him and sighed. “Well, I guess while we’re in here we might as well try to get some sleep.” He slumped against the cold, concrete wall and closed his eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning. 

Sherlock stood and stared at John’s steadily breathing form for a minute before deciding that perhaps the doctor was right. He sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the side of the concrete bench and rested his head against John’s shoulder. Sherlock tried to close his eyes for a moment, but had to open them again when the cold and the discomfort hit him. His head was starting to pound, his stomach was still churning, and he realized with a shudder that he hadn’t used the bathroom since they’d started drinking hours earlier. 

“John?” 

“Hmm?”

“I don’t feel very well.”

“And what d’you want me to do ‘bout it?” 

“I dunno. You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, but in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in jail. Now go to sleep.” 

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes again. The headache and the stomach ache he could deal with, but the building and ever-present pressure in his bladder he couldn’t. “John?”

“What?” replied the doctor, sounding more and more irritated with every interruption. 

“Have they got a bathroom here?” 

“Yeah, it’s right in the corner there, isn’t it?” asked John, tilting his head. 

Sherlock looked in the direction John had indicated and saw a metal toilet bolted to the wall. Absolutely no privacy whatsoever, they couldn’t truly expect him to use that. “Officer! Officer what’s-your-name!” Sherlock called their warden over to the bars. 

“What do you want?” 

“Have you guys got a bathroom I can use?” 

“Yeah, right in your cell. Knock yourself out.” 

“No, no, a proper bathroom with a door,” slurred Sherlock. 

“No, not for you anyway,” said the officer. 

“Come on, I’m Sherlock Holmes!” 

“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes,” sighed the officer as he walked back to his desk. 

Sherlock sighed and slowly slumped back down onto the floor, trying not to put any more pressure on his bladder than was absolutely necessary. He crossed his legs and looked towards the toilet longingly, then closed his eyes and resigned himself to try to sleep. 

After a few minutes, he found he couldn’t sit still, tossing, turning, and squirming, trying to find the most comfortable position. 

“Sherlock, if you have to go, just go,” said John. 

The detective shook his head. “I can’t.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, it’s just me. I’ll even close my eyes if you want.” 

Sherlock shook his head again. “You don’t understand, I can’t. Even if I tried to. I can’t… go in public.” 

“Well you can’t hold it all night.”

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked. 

John squinted at his watch. “2:15.”

Sherlock sighed and shut his eyes, clenching every muscle in his body. Only 7 hours, give or take, before Lestrade would get there. He’d held it that long before. But never when he’d had to go this badly. 

“You can’t hold it until morning, Sherlock. Just get it over with now,” said John. 

The detective shook his head tersely. “I can’t.”

John sighed. “Fine, suit yourself. Now go to sleep.” 

Sherlock willed himself to stay still, crossing his legs and stuffing his hand in his crotch to relieve some of the pressure. He stared at the toilet, sitting bolted to that wall, mocking him and his painfully shy bladder. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he couldn’t hold it until morning, which of course logically he knew he couldn’t. He tried to distract himself, thinking about the case, thinking about John and Mary’s wedding, thinking about all he wished he had the courage to tell John, but his thoughts kept being dragged back to the quickly building pressure in his bladder. 

Behind him, John let out an unexpected snore, causing Sherlock to jump and a hot spurt of piss to leak out, just barely wetting his underwear. He swore under his breath and held himself even tighter. It was just a matter of time now. A few minutes later he let out an uncontrollable moan as another spurt escaped, causing John to startle back into awareness. 

“Wha? Sherlock, are you alright?” 

“I can’t hold it much longer!” he grated out desperately. 

“Just go, it’s right there! No one’s watching!” John insisted. Still the detective refused. The doctor sighed and sat up, pulling on Sherlock’s arm as he did. “Come on now, get up.” 

Sherlock stood up gingerly and began pacing around the cell while John watched with exasperation. Suddenly he doubled over, holding himself and groaning as another wave of desperation hit, trying to control the wet warmth he felt slowly soaking into his trousers.

“Come on, you’re not really going to piss yourself three feet from the toilet,” insisted John. But as Sherlock stood back up straight, John saw the most vulnerable, desperate look he’d ever seen on the man’s usually impassable features, and a small patch of wetness that had formed at his crotch. 

The detective shuddered and sunk down onto the concrete bench, shaking and holding himself in a desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. John sat down next to him and stared. He’d never seen Sherlock so vulnerable before; it was almost fascinating. 

“I’m sorry, John. I can’t,” he choked out. 

“Christ, Sherlock, just use the loo!” 

“I can’t, I… can’t hold it!” he practically sobbed. 

“…Hey, don’t hurt yourself,” said John, his disposition changing at the sound of the desperate crack in Sherlock’s voice. Tentatively he rested his hand on the detective’s shoulder in an attempt at comforting. 

That touch was all Sherlock needed to have the lapse in control that pushed him over the edge. With a choked off gasp, he felt himself lose control as the hot stream of urine rushed out, gushing out through his fingers, pooling up on the bench underneath him, and running in hot streams down his legs. 

At first he tried to stop it, but once he’d begun the relief was so immense that he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t think about John staring at him, the poor soul who would have to clean his mess up, or the fact that Lestrade would probably never let him live this down; all could think about was the delicious warmth running down his legs and the sweet relief that washed over every fiber of his being. 

It seemed to go on forever, especially to John who sat watching, finding himself unable to look away. It was like a bad car wreck. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, still not fully believing that Sherlock had allowed himself to come so undone. He watched as the wet patch on Sherlock’s trousers grew past his hands and extended down his legs, darkening the fabric as it went. The piss pooled up on the bench around the man too, and soon John heard it dribble down onto the floor after it had soaked into Sherlock’s socks. 

At last the stream stopped, and Sherlock was thrown out of the bliss of relief back to the cold reality that he’d just pissed himself in a jail cell. In front of John. His face burned red with shame and he dared not look at his friend for fear of the disgusted look that likely awaited him on John’s face. Hot tears of shame mixed with the tears of relief that already filled his eyes and ran down his face as a stifled sob escaped his throat. 

“Hey, are you alright?” asked John after a few seconds.

“What does it look like?” Sherlock mumbled.

“It’s alright. I’m not mad at you, if you were worried.”

The detective dared to look up. “You’re not? You’re not disgusted with me?”

“Disgusted? I’m a doctor! I’ve seen far worse than this, believe me. I knew you weren’t going to be able to hold it all night. I just didn’t think you’d actually let it come to this.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured again. 

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m just, um, glad you’re not in pain anymore.” He watched as Sherlock shivered and realized that the soaked trousers must be getting unbearably cold by now. “You sit there, and I’ll get the guard to have someone clean this up. Maybe they’ll have a dry pair of trousers for you too,” he said gently. 

Sherlock retreated into his own little world of quiet shame as John called over the guard, and he stayed there until the nighttime cleaning crew, which consisted of one overworked and underpaid middle aged man, finished cleaning up his mess and left. Throughout the whole ordeal the only one who did not glare at him was John. 

Once everything was cleaned up and the guard had gone back to his desk, John sat back down on the bench and Sherlock gingerly sat down on the floor in front of him. “Hey, you don’t have to sleep on the floor if you don’t want to,” said John. 

“Where else would I sleep?” 

“You could come up here with me if you want. I think we might both fit.”

Sherlock looked up almost disbelievingly, but after seeing the gentle sincerity in his friend’s eyes, he stood up and managed to squeeze himself onto the bench next to John, one of his arms wrapped around the doctor’s body to prevent him from slipping off. 

“You okay?” asked John. 

Sherlock nodded, started into John’s eyes for a moment, and then moved his head the short distance that was required to bridge the gap between their lips. 

“What was that for?” asked John when Sherlock pulled back a second later. 

“A thank you,” said Sherlock. “For putting up with me so well.” 

John chuckled and kissed Sherlock back. 

“What was that for?” asked the detective.

John smirked. “For putting up with you I deserve two kisses.”


End file.
